


A Prince for a Princess

by Lyssandra_Med



Series: One-Shot [53]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Arranged Marriage, Extended world building for something small, F/F, meet cute?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:41:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25038667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyssandra_Med/pseuds/Lyssandra_Med
Summary: A fallen kingdom sends Princes to their neighbours, and Hermione is now one such tribute.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Series: One-Shot [53]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1429282
Comments: 8
Kudos: 103





	A Prince for a Princess

**Author's Note:**

> Not edited

A harsh surrender was unusual in the history of Hogwarts. Wars had been fought for ages, they would win, and life would go on.

But  _ this _ War -  _ this final one that broke all the rules _ \- was different.

This war had been long at nearly fifty years, arduous to high and low-born, and left families broken with their pride smashed down into the dirt. Their military -  _ or rather what was left of the loose assortment of knights who had sworn fealty to the Crown and those few semi-professional garrisons that had been marching to their Houses drums for generations  _ \- were smashed beyond recognition by the time the last sword fell. 

The end came from within. Hufflepuff, proud and loyal, had rescinded all support and with it went nearly thirty major and minor Houses that had once supported Hogwarts with food, men, strategy and healing. They simply stood to the side and said  _ ‘No more.’ _ Helga -  _ a Matriarch and a Mother and a Sister to them all in spirit if not in blood  _ \- had recalled all of her garrisons and set about shoring what little she had in the way of personal prosperity. What grains and meats had been sent to the frontlines were recalled and stored for a winter that all knew would be long and arduous. What help she was tactically was now gone, and along with it all access to her repositories of knowledge, from healing to battlefield cleanliness. Her forests were blazed to ash and the bodies that had come back were prepared to enter a writhing ground in the hopes of salvaging a late-year harvest.

Most of them knew it would not be enough but still no one could tell if the harvest would fail entirely. After all, enough tears had been shed to recall their fighters, what were more in the hopes of raising something green to eat?

Ravenclaw continued to debate the meaning and the method of their war, all while slowly losing out what could have counted as proper intelligence. Forewarning fell away, spies disappeared, and eventually even the mightiest scholars that they had were reduced to torpor and listlessness as the caskets continued to return in ever-higher numbers. Enough was -  _ finally _ \- enough. They had more than enough bodies -  _ far, far too many _ \- to study, to inspect, to tear apart in that eternal search for the spark that created life. They retreated to their secluded castles and hid behind unconquerable mountains. They fell back into their books and began -  _ with vile earnest  _ \- to lecture anyone and everyone on just what had gone wrong with the War while expertly ignoring their own part in it.

Reviled bastards, that lot. All of them more interested in recounting a still living history than do anything to preserve it.

And then fell Gryffindor, the mighty Lion beaten back and succumbing to treasonous venom. Poor, foolhardy Gryffindor. Always so self-assured in the righteousness of their cause and refusing to read the writing on the walls.

Despite the easy fact that they had supplied the bulk of the garrisons fighting in the war they had marched on Salazar’s lands and suffered the least for it. They were the best of the best, the strongest fighters and most willing to die for their cause, for their home, for the myth that was Hogwarts. Being known for infallible courage under duress and unflinching loyalty to the ideal that was Hogwarts had led to a zealous approach to battle and one that eventually shattered in evidence of its brittleness.

The losses that they suffered -  _ few as they were _ \- were more than enough to wipe whole families out. Branches of massive trees were burned and thrown away just as one might empty out a chamberpot. Their motto inside the halls of the capital -  _ cut off the snakes head, and the body will wither _ \- had been applied in reverse. 

And Salazar knew it. Knew it and relished it for the sudden boon it presented to him. He had never had the heart to win by battle alone, hadn’t wanted to sacrifice so much from the one Kingdom with so few. When it became clear the will of his enemies was beginning to waver he turned to diplomacy and strategic might. Food for the Hufflepuff Kingdom. Books and notes for the Ravenclaw aristocracy. Bodies, cloaked with all the respectability he could offer, returned to the grieving families that constituted Gryffindor.

He won -  _ Godric-Helga-Rowena _ -, his enemies lost.

A fractured set of kingdoms that had once made up an empire now turned to madness and desire to stem the bloodshed. And of course it was Salazar who presented them a plan forward, a path that would leave him and his House as the victors while assuaging the pain of his enemies. 

The Triumverate; he an impartial ruler to the Empire, and the Triumverate allowed to continue on as they had so long as they recognized and gave fealty to the Kingdom of Slytherin. An impartial ruler was chosen for the three, one that had been selected and upheld by an autonomous body with reach and members inside each kingdom. Thus, the Regent was born.

Tribune followed. Grain, gold, and bodies. 

Slytherin had always been small and so they made up for their lack of numbers by supplanting from those who had more to spare. Princelings stolen away from their mothers, from the Third they had been born into and given to Slytherin instead to be married and raised in a House befitting of their station.

And then -  _ by a very odd set of circumstances that she never would have predicted _ \- Hermione was chosen.

\---

The circular  _ clack-clack-clack _ of wooden wheels bouncing along the cobblestone road was a tiresome and  _ highly _ annoying sound that Hermione was sure would never cease. It seemed to go on and on, broken only by those hours she was asleep or deep within her reading. The similarly repetitive noise of hooves clacking against the old stone was also beginning to rub Hermione raw, and soon enough -  _ by a measure of weeks _ \- the books she had brought along were no help at all. She had been hopeful at the outset that she could finish most of them -  _ if not all, who knew what the libraries were like in Slytherin? _ \- but that wish had soon become unfulfillable. 

Despite the fact that she had read it in books, seen it written on parchment, and hear about it in lectures she had never once truly understood the true  _ distance _ between the Triumverate and Slytherin. It simply existed as some far-away mirage, a power that she knew was to be feared but not one that  _ she _ would ever live to see.

Or at least that had been the case until the fateful day that her House -  _ lowly and unknown _ \- was uplifted and spliced by a sponsor into the ungainly branches of House Dagworth. Hermione Dagworth-Granger, the newest Prince to a nascent and untested branch, only here and only going  _ there _ due to a mish-mash of destiny and ill-luck. 

A major House. A different life. She recoiled where she sat and not for the first time Hermione cursed at her sudden answer to the elderly Dagworth, her response that  _ yes _ she would go even if she couldn’t know who it was that she would be bonded to, that  _ yes _ she would be fit to give herself away in duty to Ravenclaw.

But here she was, and no way to go home. 

\---

When the massive train of coaches came to a sudden halt that had Hermione groaning in the sudden silence, she questioned things. Her torpor had broken and her mind filled with wonder at the sudden cessation of movement, so used to the continuous forward momentum that they had been under that she still felt a phantom tug into the back of her seat. A second passed before the discomfort fled and she stuck a head of curls and frizz out of the simple window to see what exactly was going on.

They hadn’t properly stopped once since this journey had begun -  _ which was something of a miracle if she were honest, all the waystations that they passed were built and stationed such that the horses were relieved mid-stride while food and other essentials were carried over by riders that works in shifts  _ \- and while Hermione was relieved that she now had a chance to stretch her legs without stooping so as to avoid the ceiling she was also confused. They had been travelling for over four months and she was certain that they had at least four more to go. So then why in the world would they call the caravan to a halt?

With her head poked out the side of the coach it took Hermione more than a few moments to notice the commotion at the front -  _ as being stuck in the middle of the caravan traded off a view for better security _ \- and she sourly disembarked to see exactly what was going on. The maid within the coach protested gently,  _ ‘Ser, no!’ _ and Hermione ignored her every word.

The solid ground was too good to ignore, her maid’s words be damned.

Hermione stared up to the sky and lost herself for a moment in a simple stretch that pulled her overcoat tighter to her body -  _ all the dimensions just slightly off, all meant for someone with a much different build _ \- and lifted her heels off of the ground. The winds that passed in from the North -  _ or what Hermione supposed was the North, what with the general location of Slytherin’s capital city being at the end of this road and a gentle diffusion of light that came from the sun wherever it was hidden far above behind a slate-grey blanket of ashen clouds -  _ and her hair buffetted in the resulting breeze until she could pull it tight and secure again.

With a lazy exhale Hermione turned towards the front of the caravan and headed towards the front. Harry waved mutely at her -  _ the dark-haired tribute from Gryffindor that year and an all-around decent Prince, though he had quite a propensity for inserting himself (and thus, his rather overbearing opinions) into places that he wasn’t wanted _ \- from the comfort of his coach and Hermione continued past after nodding in return. There were people out far ahead of her, she belated noted, off of their horses and standing rank with weapons upheld and bodies faced towards where they were travelling.

When she was finally close enough to touch the line of soldiers -  _ each of them clad in metal and cloth that had been dyed and shaped to represent their Houses; gold and bright red for Gryffindor with a lion helm, bronze and a startling blue for Ravenclaw with a helm fashioned into a raven (and matched to Hermione’s own clothing, a colour combination that she had never truly enjoyed), and Hufflepuff with their yellow and black and helms of snarling badgers _ \- she stopped and peered beyond them. The road ahead rose upwards to crest a mighty hill that had been blasted and burned of shrubbery and green, crafted instead into the visage of a rather -  _ ugly _ \- bald head.

But why had they stopped?

Hermione attempted to force an answer from one of the Ravenclaw sergeants who was standing behind his commander, all the plates of his metal armour glowing dully beneath the diffused sun. His eyes were stuck to the horizon though and she only received a simple request -  _ that she immediately ignored _ \- that she return to her coach and await further news.

A minute passed in silence until she finally heard it.

Minute, faint, carried on the wind that was pushing down from the hill and barely audible even in the silence of the caravan. What started low was rising as the seconds continued to tick onwards towards some unknown fulfilment that Hermione -  _ tilting her head and shutting her eyes in an effort to avoid all distraction, as little as there was _ \- couldn’t suss. 

Until she opened her eyes and saw it.

Horses.

_ Hundreds of them. _

From far beneath the crest of the hill Hermione watched with awe -  _ and no small amount of fright _ \- as a sea of green and silver broke over the top of the ridge and spilled forward with thunderous malice. A whole line of riders encompassed the swiftly moving front from one edge of the pushed back greenery to the other. All of them were riding full tilt and helmeted by wicked sheets of silver that been festooned and warped to resemble the open maw of a striking viper. Some of the riders clutched banners that rose tall over their heads, each one of them distinct and abstract but just close enough to what Hermione had read about in her history books to know to whom they belonged.

There on the left was the braying hound of House Nott, its split end rising and falling with the movement of the rider. Beside him upon a banner of yellow were black eyes and red pupils declaring for House Crabbe. A quill of black stood in stark relief to a banner of pink, the simple motif of House Umbridge -  _ known and reviled throughout the Triumverate and Slytherin for their penchant for torture and mind games  _ \- while beside them trailed even more in obscure and ancient designs.

A silver peacock for House Malfoy upon a field of dark green, a leaping wolf for House Greyback, twin Crowns intertwined with a subtle and thorny rose between them as the symbol of House Parkinson. Towards the middle were even more, each of the riders jostling to remain focused and commanding as they flooded ontop and beside of the cobblestone road.

But it was the two at the fore of the pack that held Hermione’s attention the most. 

Of the two, one was the largest and yet the least fanciful of them all. It was simple really, a black background and silver border within which sat the outline of a triangle with a circle situated inside of it and a single line bisecting them both. Hermione blinked, unsure if she were  _ really _ seeing what she believed she was.

House Gaunt, the Most Ancient and Noble successor to House Slytherin.

But there beside it was another, three jackdaws in midflight, stitched in black and placed atop a white fabric that was so sheer that Hermione swore she could see through it.

House Black, the right hands to the Emporer.

\---

Being told to shuffle back to her coach like some errant child was an annoyance that Hermione immediately shot down. The Commander of the Ravenclaw contingent -  _ who were all now dutifully kneeling with their weapons placed onto the ground _ \- tried to shoo her away before the approaching riders reached their -  _ now obvious _ \- destination. Hermione simply brushed his hand away and evaded the hands of a sergeant, spitefully glaring him in the eyes until he gave in.

This was a momentous occasion that only occurred once a decade and Hermione was not in a mood to miss out on it, no matter her reservations or the nervousness churning within her belly. She would witness this changing of the guard and their unspoken change from citizens of the Triumverate to citizens of Slytherin with open eyes and a ready heart.

But she would not do so on her feet it seemed.

When it became clear that she would not be simply pushed away the Commander yanked her down to the ground to kneel as he had done, all the while muttering lowly beneath his breath about insolent children -  _ and Hermione sheathed when she heard that, she was twenty-three and he had better damned well recognize that! _ \- before turning his attention back to his men and the riders that were approaching at a slower pace. Hermione groused and muttered on her own before joining him in looking at the host coming to a staggered halt, the riders all dismounting horses to remove their pristine helmets.

They looked -  _ on the whole _ \- to be just as human as anyone else that Hermione had ever seen. Some of them were obviously farther along in their years than others and there were more women scattered throughout than Hermione had anticipated but they all were just  _ ordinary _ . 

All except the two in the front, the duo who immediately upon unclasping their helms managed to catch Hermione’s attention in full.

Emperor Thomas Marvolo Riddle-Gaunt stood tall as he mussed his hair, fluffing the length of it back up after having been covered and compressed by his helm for who knew how long. His gaze was sharp and piercing, cursory yet still digging beneath Hermione’s soul as she looked side to side along the assembled knights -  _ and her _ \- at the front of the caravan. When he strode forward to greet the Commanders of the caravan the figure at his side removed their helm and for a moment Hermione was at more of a loss for words at seeing the person behind it than she had been in seeing the Emporer himself.

A shorter woman who yet carried herself with the air of a Queen, her length of hair a nest of ringlets and curls that twisted and looped into one another with such a shining black lustre that Hermione inexplicably found herself wanting to touch them. The woman herself was beautiful, all pale eyes of silver that seemed to mirror the state of the clouds high above them and a face that was young and yet aged in select ways. A scar lay sideways upon her chin, a birthmark beneath her left eye, skin pale and ethereal and all of her so beautiful -  _ so magnificent _ \- that Hermione found herself coming apart. She felt lost within herself as she inspected what she could of the woman, coming to the conclusion that she couldn’t be much older than herself.

She was entranced and found herself lost, unable to come up from whatever strange ocean had subsumed her, staring upwards with a blank face and gaping like some misbegotten fish.

She blinked, closed her mouth, and suddenly found herself the attention of the most powerful people in all the land, aware now that they had been talking and she hadn’t heard a word of it.

“-excluding this  _ girl,” _ the raven-haired woman began -  _ or continued, or ended, as Hermione could not tell as she was still absorbed by the woman’s beauty _ \- in a voice more mocking than Hermione would have imagined proper. “Where are the Princes? I want to see my future husband.”

No one answered for a second and it was in that second that Hermione’s wonder-struck heart betrayed her.

“Well, there’s me.” Hermione spoke without being spoken to, looking around herself when the sergeants and Commanders turned her way. “And Harry Potter. Oh, and Neville Longbottom?” Hermione’s final words were suffused with a wavering tone -  _ she hadn’t paid enough attention to the Hufflepuff Prince to know if she was correct or not _ \- as she looked towards the Commanders for help. “The Dagworth’s son died eight months ago of a fever that couldn’t be calmed. Because I was sponsored to them and they had no other children I was chosen to take his place. In the eyes of the Triumverate and our treaty, I am a Prince.”

A beat passed between them, silent except the movement of the wind.

“Oh! I’m Hermione, Hermione Dagworth-Granger.”

“You mean to tell me that _ she’s _ the Ravenclaw Prince?” The woman spoke, her voice filled up with venom and malice as she glared down at the now mute form of Hermione and the babbling face of the Ravenclaw Commander. “The Dagworth’s were supposed to offer up a son for me,  _ Me, _ Bellatrix Black! Not some idiot child that’s been sponsored!”

Emperor Riddle appeared to be amused at Bellatrix’s tirade, leaving her there to stare irately at the Commanders. He probably  _ was _ amused, the glint in his eyes spoke to nothing else.

And Hermione was frozen.

“I’m to be your  _ husband!?” _


End file.
